Wishful Thinking (44 page)

Andy was out of his chair, crouching down beside Lin with his arms around her. ‘Lin . . . oh Lin . . . my dearest dear . . .'

‘It was my fault,' she said, between sobs. ‘I let him into our lives – I trusted him – I wanted to be in love – I wanted a date for your wedding—'

‘What?'

‘I didn't want to be a pathetic failure any more, always messing up. I didn't want you to be
sorry
for me . . .'

‘I'm not sorry for you! That is, I am, but – damn, I'm saying this all wrong. You're so special, so wonderful – so trusting and loving. You get hurt so easily, just because of that, but I couldn't bear you to change. I don't want you to be hard and cynical and worldly-wise. You need someone to protect you, someone to—Oh
bugger
.' A bar, even in a private club, is not an ideal location for heart's outpouring. Pre-lunch drinkers were gathering in the vicinity, trying not to look interested. Lin pulled herself together, a little reluctantly, blotting up the tears with her napkin. There had been a moment when it was bliss to let go, to feel a strong arm around her, an available shoulder to cry on. She had forgotten about Catriona and she thought, for a minute or two, so had Andy.

‘Can you face lunch?' he asked.

‘I don't think so. I haven't been eating much lately.'

‘I can see that. You're far too thin. Food will do you good. Finish your drink and we'll go eat in Zilli's, in a nice quiet corner.' He went next door to reserve the table and specify the corner in question, and Lin returned to her martini. She felt warmed by his concern, and afraid it was nothing more, and she knew now that what she really wanted – what she ached for and yearned for – was just to melt into his arms, if only they hadn't been pre-booked by someone else.

It was six-thirty before we got back to the Groucho where Lin was waiting with Andy. Encouraged by us, and sustained by her fiancé's credit card, Catriona looked . . . different. As I knew, Georgie loved playing the fairy godmother in the transformation scene, and with an unlimited budget and such very
raw
raw material any underhand schemes she might have had were forgotten in the flood-tide of her enthusiasm. Catriona had a hazy idea of how she wanted to look; Georgie could turn fantasy into reality. When we got back to Dean Street Catriona had a flawless crème caramel tan, a mass of streaked-blonde hair, full metal jacket, low-slung hipster trousers, scanty halter-neck top. Her face was no longer as Nature intended, with a subtle hint of blusher under the cheekbone and unsubtle gold spangles above it. Heavy black mascara and a blurring of shadow enlarged her eyes; her lips had been painted into a full cherry-red pout. The rock-chick effect was completed with an assortment of designer costume jewellery and strappy sandals with twists of steel chain and four-inch heels.

‘Now,' Georgie had said to her, ‘you really look as if your name is Cat. As in Cool For.'

Catriona was so pleased with her appearance she clearly hadn't stopped to think how Andy would react. She was more like a teenager putting on sexy clothes for the first time than a twenty-four-year-old, which only goes to demonstrate the hazards of living a sheltered life. But in the taxi to Soho, she had become rather quiet.

‘He will like the way I look, won't he?' she said.

‘It's the way you
want
to look,' Georgie replied. ‘If he isn't happy with it, that's his fault. He shouldn't try to superimpose his own idealised image on the person you are. But I'm sure he'll think you look great. We do.'

I was too busy feeling guilty to say anything. Of course, what Georgie said was true (most of it, anyway), but that didn't make it any better. Catriona, who came across as a nice quiet girl even if she did support fox-hunting, had walked straight into our trap, and it was mere quibbling for me to tell myself that at the beginning it had been her own idea. We had nudged, tempted and lured her all the way. By the time we got to the club, I felt as evil and manipulative as Cruella de Ville, and it wasn't fun.

When we walked into the bar, Andy totally failed to recognise his bride-to-be. ‘Where's Cat?' he asked.

‘It's me,' said the
nouvelle
blonde. ‘What d'you think? Isn't it wonderful?' She fluffed her hair, twirled – and stopped, waiting for approval, looking like a puppy that has brought something particularly unpleasant in from the garden and deposited it at his master's feet.

Andy's face was a picture, though not the kind they would hang in the Tate. The beard partially concealed the dropped jaw and shocked pallor, but nothing could hide the amazement in his eyes. ‘What – what have you done?' And to Georgie and me: ‘What have you done to her?'

‘We fulfilled her dreams,' Georgie said. ‘This is who she wanted to be.'

‘I liked who she was,' he retorted grimly.

‘But – I hated my boring brown hair, and my boring country clothes,' Catriona said. ‘I always wanted to be blonde, and sexy, and have a sun-tan and a navel stud.' She glanced down fondly at the glitter in her belly-button. ‘This is fake, but I'm going to get a real one. I think I look
wicked
. I've never looked wicked before. I've never felt this good about myself. I thought – I hoped – you'd . . . like . . . it . . .'

‘Well,
I
think you look absolutely terrific,' Lin said, rushing into the breach with a generosity that was magical because it was so genuine. ‘I used to dream of wearing clothes like that, sometimes, but I knew they wouldn't work on me, I haven't the right personality. But you look
fantastic
.
Doesn't
she, Andy?'

‘Yes,' he said grudgingly, picking up his cue. ‘It's just . . . a bit of a shock. Rather a dramatic change . . .'

‘Are you sure it's okay?' Catriona said. And, belatedly: ‘I won't be happy if you don't like it.'

‘It's fine . . .' Funny how people always use the word
fine
to mean exactly the opposite.

‘I bought a Liz Hurley dress too, all backless and slinky, and some more shoes, but they're quite low, only three inches, and this white thing that crosses over at the front and ties, and a bra-top with sequins round the nipples, and . . .'

Lin threw a tragic look at Georgie. ‘How could you let her do this?' she whispered.

We didn't
let
her, we encouraged her, I thought, but didn't say so.

‘It's all come from her,' Georgie whispered back. ‘Andy doesn't have the right to keep her looking like a sprig of heather in tartan drawers if she doesn't want to.'

‘She wasn't wearing tartan drawers!'

‘In spirit.'

Andy, meanwhile, had plainly decided to put a brave face on things. It didn't suit him. ‘How about us all going out to dinner?' he said.

‘I had lunch: remember?' Lin said. ‘I don't usually eat a proper meal twice a day.'

‘You need fattening up.'

‘Georgie and I ought to be going,' I threw in, hastily.

‘No you don't,' Andy said. It was clear that the prospect of being alone with his fiancée wasn't something he could handle right now. ‘We'll all go.' He added, rather nastily: ‘You two deserve a treat, after all the help you've given Cat.'

We went to the Red Fort for superior Indian, but none of us ate much. It is a little-known fact, but embarrassment is a big appetite-killer, and Georgie and I, if not actually cringing, were definitely ill-at-ease. Andy didn't brood because he wasn't the type, but he spoke rarely, and what conversation he did make sounded forced. He spent most of the time watching Catriona, who alternated between expressions of self-doubt and head-tossing defiance.

‘If you really don't like these clothes,' I heard her say, ‘you shouldn't pay for them. I'll get the money, somehow. Or take them back . . .'

‘Don't be silly.'

As often happens when the man is much older, he came across more like a teacher or guardian than a lover. Cat was clearly aiming for the penitent schoolgirl effect, but it was difficult in that get-up, and I sensed she was losing her taste for the role.

‘How did it go?' I asked Lin in a low voice, when the others were sufficiently distracted. ‘Did you tell Andy all about it?'

‘Yes.'

‘And?'

‘He was lovely.' For a second, there was a flicker of wry pain in her face. ‘So understanding and
kind
 . . .'

I seemed to recall she had been dreading his kindness for the last few weeks, but all that was clearly forgotten. I suppose there is kindness and
kindness
, under these conditions. The disinterested, slightly patronising sort (
vid
. Laura in Hampstead), and the sort that comes from the heart and is given with love. (And then there's the everyday sort, the effortless gift of a generous spirit, which costs nothing and warms the recipient and is a lot rarer than it should be.) Anyway, Andy's kindness obviously came into the right category, but I detected without much surprise a touch of the might-have-beens in that passing flicker.

Across the table I studied Catriona, who, prompted by Georgie, was now talking about hunting. It wasn't cruel, it was natural; city people just didn't understand. Foxes could be really savage: they would break into a hen-house and kill every bird, not to feed but for the sake of killing. Is that any reason for humans to do the same? Georgie wanted to know. Cat argued her point with pretty eagerness, not the thrusting anger of one who is deaf to all other opinions. It was easy to see why Andy had been attracted: she seemed young for her age, with that wind-off-the-loch freshness and slight naïveté which evidently appealed to him. But both would go with time, I thought, and the opinions would harden, and one day he would feel nostalgic for the rock-chick clothes.

If he was really in love with her, of course.

The weather might be cooling down a little outside but in parts of the office the temperature seemed to plummet. When Georgie and Cal encountered one another, they would exchange polite greetings and walk on, leaving behind the sudden chill that you get when two people are determined to place their hearts in cold storage. Laurence Buckle, too, seemed to be nursing his resentment, both against Jerry Beauman's homophobia and Alistair's acceptance of it. This was unlike Laurence, who had always been fairly easy-going, at least on the surface – though I wondered if his past tolerance had required an effort. Now, he showed glimpses of bitterness, and was often aloof. Lin was deeply unhappy, for more reasons than one, and I – well, let's just say that when I went to bed it took a struggle to keep my mind on Hugh Jackman. I tried transferring my affections to Johnny Depp in
Pirates of the Caribbean
, James Marsters in the final season of
Buffy
(Laurence lent me the tapes), and even Orlando Bloom as a cool but subtly seductive Legolas, but it didn't really work, though there was a certain amount of originality in having sex with an elf. (Elves have highly sensitive ears: I could drive him mad by just licking the tips.) We all tried to maintain a façade of optimism for the benefit of other colleagues, but an autumnal fog had settled over Ransome Harber which none of the seasonal parties could disperse. Work provided a few highs, but the lows were always there underneath.

‘I told Hector about that business with Jerry Beauman,' Laurence said one evening in the Grinning Gibbon, a new local we had taken to patronising. ‘D'you know what he said? He said – he
said
– I'd never really come out. He said
that
was my problem. I didn't think I had a problem! Apparently, I don't really like football and beer and being one of the lads; I'd rather be mincing round home furnishings in Peter Jones choosing kitchen curtains. He says I don't ask you all to dinner because I'm ashamed of him.'

‘Well, you
don't
ask us to dinner,' Georgie pointed out.

‘Yes, but I'm not a dinner party person. Hector's the socialite: he asks people to dinner every bloody week. If I did it too we'd never have an evening alone. Anyway, I prefer going to the pub.'

‘We could come to dinner one night if it would help,' I offered.

‘That's not the point,' Laurence said with what was, I realised, unintentional rudeness. ‘The point is that we've been together eight – nine years, and suddenly he's saying I'm not committed, I'm not
gay
enough for his taste. Like he's been thinking it, all this time, and keeping quiet, bottling it up . . .'

‘He'll get over it,' Georgie said. ‘At least you're still together.'

‘Any word from Andy?' I asked Lin hurriedly, to break the ensuing pause.

‘He called and left a message,' said Lin, ‘and I called and got his voice-mail, and so on for the past week.'

‘If he marries Catriona,' Georgie said, ‘they'll be in the divorce court in a year.'

‘She seemed very sweet,' said Lin, ‘except for supporting hunting, and I don't suppose she can help that. It's how she was brought up.'

‘Rubbish,' Georgie declared. ‘She goes in for sadistic blood sports and she's a gold-digger to boot.'

‘A successful one,' I said. ‘Sour grapes. Anyway, I think you're wrong. She may be a gold-digger but she's fooling herself it's love, playing beggar-maid to Andy's King Cophetua. He sweeps her off for glamorous weekends in London and gives her a credit card to spend. It would be awfully easy to get carried away by all that.'

‘Don't rub it in,' Georgie said, wincing at the credit-card reference. But such was her despondency she hadn't bought so much as a pair of holdups lately, and I dared to hope the bill might be inching down a fraction.